Decision at Thunder Rift

by William H. Keith

  "Come."

  In the passageway, there were only twisted, blood-soaked bodies and the silent forms of black-garbed attackers. The one Stefan knew must be the leader gave nearly silent commands and signals to crouching groups of commandos, sending them off down branching corridors with lethal efficiency.

  "Put this on." The leader handed Stefan a light-weight breathing mask from a pouch. It was even harder to see the black shadows in the pale amber tint of the mask's amplifier goggles. Blood," he saw, became a slick and lustrous black through the goggles, and the passageway took on an eerie quality in the ghostly light. "The Command Center. Lead us."

  Stefan nodded. "Two levels up. This way!"

  The attack was heralded by the rasp of an alarm klaxon and the shuffle of boots across bare tile.floors as squads of men raced to their positions. From above, the woman's voice continued the patient announcement, "Alert, alert. Security penetration in sectors five and six."

  "I've lost the Repair Bay," Riviera said. "Commlink's dead."

  Griffith's scowl deepened, twisting the scar on his face as his jaw clenched, then relaxed. "Tell the Captain. Ari, let me have your chair."

  Ari stood up, and Griffith slipped into his vacant chair beside Riviera.

  Grayson pulled another chair from a nearby console and pushed in next to the Weapons Master. "Griff, who is it? Why are they attacking us?"

  "I don't know, lad, though my first guess is the Trells. Riviera, put the garrison on full alert. Then patch me to the patrol monitors. I want to try and raise the patrol in town."

  Grayson felt a numbing confusion. Certainly, the Trells had not been happy when news of the coming treaty with Oberon had leaked out, but he found it hard to believe that it was they who were storming up from the Castle's Repair Bay. How had they broken in? Those vast, sliding doors were proof against the hammerings of an 80-ton 'Mech. Nothing short of a small tactical nuke — long forbidden by treaty and practicality — could breach them.

  He fixed his eyes on the image still being transmitted from his father's Phoenix Hawk. The DropShip was so close now that it filled the entire screen with black metal, though the ranging data across the bottom of the screen indicated the ship was still 90 meters away. Then he saw a port opening near the base, spilling harsh light across the ferrocrete paving.

  "Griff!" The cry was torn from Grayson's throat. A ramp had dropped from the brilliantly lit opening, and soldiers were pouring out of it. The screen flared white, and the open commlink spat static as a high-energy beam swept across the ‘Mech's antennae.

  "Base!" I'm under attack!" Captain Carlyle's words were static-blasted and harsh. "Particle beam from a turret on the ship!"

  The computer readout on a nearby monitor shifted and flickered, showing a sudden surge of power within the Phoenix Hawk, rapid movement, a double blast from the machine's powerful, arm-mounted lasers. The 'Mech's internal heat rose four degrees in as many seconds.

  The Captain shifted, blurring screen images. It was difficult to follow what was happening on the monitors. Grayson couldn't really SEE anything but gyrating snatches of the port structures and the pulsing flash of detonations. The computer readout alongside the image monitor told more of the story to those, like Grayson, trained to read it

  Carlyle's Phoenix Hawk was a middleweight as BattleMechs go, and shared the humanoid pattern of most 'Mechs. It mounted a massive laser riflelike in its right hand. The 'Mech also mounted smaller lasers and antipersonnel machine guns in the extended duralloy vambraces of each forearm. The readouts showed those weapons systems powered up and swinging into line, showed turrets on the grounded freighter bracketed by crosshairs and the steady flicker of range and target acquisition date.

  The left arm laser beamed invisible, coherent light across the DropShip's lower hull plates and baffles, and a weapons turret fragmented in flame and hurtling chunks of metal.

  "Acknowledged, Captain." Griffith's voice was steady as he answered Carlyle's statement that the Phoenix Hawk was under attack, but beads of persipiration had broken out along his eyebrows and mustache. He paused to read a printed message flickering across one of the monitor screens. "Security Chief Xiang's on his way from our shuttle. He'll be in position to support you in two minutes!"

  There was no answer as another particle beam caught the Phoenix Hawk, staggering the heavy machine and threatening to melt through already smoldering armor. Carlyle's 'Mech whirled, dissipating the killer beam, then fired a twin laser burst, tracking the enemy cannon by its infra-red glow. There was a savage blast as white-hot, multi-ton fragments rained across the landing area.

  Another man joined the knot of staff personnel at the console. Ernest Hauptman was the pilot of the Lance's number two machine. He wore his Lieutenant's blue-rimmed, gray dress uniform, with worry hung from his shoulders like a cape. Normally, he would be piloting the 55-ton Shadow Hawk that now lay helpless in the Repair Bay. At the moment, his duty station was in Combat Command, and he didn't like that at all.

  "Griff, we got problems," Hauptman said.

  "The intruders are up to the deck below. Looks like they're making a try for Combat Command."

  "Who are they. Lieutenant? Trells?"

  The big man shook his man. "Can't tell. They're in combat sneak-suits. Can't get a better look until we take one."

  "Then let's do it." Griffin stood, then looked over at Grayson. "Son, we'd best get you to..."

  "No, Griff! Not now!" Grayson still sat before the monitor. The screen showed little more than wild zigzags of movement punctuated by the white flare of exploding missiles and stabbing beams.

  "Riviera, I've got to go," the Weapons Master said tersely. "You'll get him out if it gets tight?"

  "Right, Griff. We'll be O.K. I can use him here on the commlink."

  "Right."

  Grayson turned back to the monitor as Hauptman and Griffin hurried away. The battle at the landing port was developing with savage speed. He wanted to do something, to help, but there was nothing to do but watch.

  The Phoenix Hawk was running, taking five-meter strides that echoed thunder above the blast and crash of exploding shells. Grayson thought about how dependent a pilot was on his 'Mech's mobility on the battlefield. Even more than on his armor, for the pilot's commands to his gigantic steed could not be anticipated by firecontrol computers. But in a close range battle such as this one, firecontrol could be of the point-in-that-direction-and-fire variety and still score hits.

  A sound like a tornado's roar and light too bright to bear burst from the monitor. Carlyle's Hawk was hit hard by a medium-range missile that fireballed across the right upper rear of its body and smashed the 'Mech into the ferrocrete.

  "Dad!"

  Grayson's involuntary scream into an open mike brought Riviera's hand down on his shoulder. "Don't clog the commlink, young sir. It can't help him."

  "S-sorry." Grayson struggled for control. For him, battle had never been so gut-wrenchingly personal. "He's hit!”

  The image monitor showed the pavement swinging down and away as the 'Mech staggered back to its feet. Smoke swirled across the scene. By the unsteady light of a fire burning somewhere near, Grayson could make out the flitting shapes of troops running from shadow to shadow.

  "I'm O.K., son." Carlyle's voice over the commlink was steady, though Grayson heard the tightness of battle strain edging the words. "Is Griff there?"

  "Griffs helping coordinate the defense," Riviera cut in. "We're being attacked here, too."

  "Damn. We've been had."

  "Who is it, Dad?"

  The monitor image swooped, dipped, and spun. They heard the staccato rattle of the Hawk's heavy machine guns blazing away at half-screen targets in the smoke. Tracers floated lazily across the screen as they tracked a racing vehicle that skimmed just above the ferrocrete on howling fans. A light autofire cannon stuttered and winked in reply from the darkness.

  The hovercraft vanished in smoke and shadow. "I don't know, Gray," his father replied at last. "The
y're not traders, though, that's for damn sure!"

  "Hendrik's pirates?" Riviera said.

  "I don't know. Could be. But why? By all the gods of space, why?"

  Grayson looked across the room at Vogel. The Commonwealth representative was rooted to a monitor console, white-faced and stricken. The alliance with Hendrik had been HIS idea.

  Riviera followed Grayson's gaze. "He's watching his career die on that screen," he said, and Grayson nodded. The man was clenching and unclenching his hands, which gave them the appearance of being gripped by some dreadful spasm.

  There was a searing flash and a blast that stunned the listeners in Command Control. The Phoenix Hawk was down again, with half a dozen flashing red indicators clamoring for attention. On the screen, Grayson could make out twisted metal, paint-charred and still smouldering. It took him dazed seconds to recognize in the debris half of the Hawk's right arm, its steel fingers still closed across the grip of the heavy laser, now lying on the pavement in blasted ruin.

  "Sergeant?" Carlyle's voice was tight now, almost inaudible across the blast of battle static.

  "Sir! Are you all right?"

  "Gyros hit... port servos out... having trouble stabilizing. Looks like the right arm and main gun are gone too. I'm... hit pretty bad..."

  Riviera was studying another monitor. "Hang on, Captain! Xiang's on his way with the security patrol! They'll be close enough to support you in a few seconds!"

  The Hawk was on its feet again, and telemetry readouts showed it was firing into the smoky darkness as rapidly as the single remaining heavy weapon could be recharged, stabbing invisible beams of laser light at half-glimpsed targets whenever the 'Mech's computer trackers could pick them up from IR scans. An infra-red mosaic overlaid the visible light image, picking out running figures in light blue, the white-hot geysers of vehicle engines, the towering mountain of yellow heat that was the grounded DropShip a few hundred meters awway. Much of the enemy fire was coming from the freighter, which was obviously much better armed than any freighter had a right to be. Carlyle had blasted at least five turrets that he could identify, and the returning fire had scarcely slackened at all. It appeared that beam weapons had been temporarily mounted in ports cut right into the hull metal.

  "What's... status... in the base?" Carlyle's words came in grunts now, as he gasped for air. The computer readout showed the cabin temperature was climbing steadily, blasted higher by each maneuver, by each discharged weapon and hit

  "Inside job, I think, Captain. Someone disabled some of our security cameras and opened the Repair Bay outer lock. The fight's pretty hot down there."

  "Hauptman?"

  "With Griffin, fighting the intruders."

  "Tell him... he's in command. Get the Lance... out of there. We... can't...stay... Trellwan longer..."

  "Dad! Hang on! Xiang's almost there!"

  "I see him. His troops are spreading out across the paving. I..."

  There was a long silence. "Captain!" Riviera shouted.

  "Son of a bitch..." The words were spoken quietly, almost reverently. The image monitor was focused now on the base of the grounded freighter, at the gaping maw of an open hatch with a heavy black ramp sliding to the scarred ferrocrete. The IR overlay gave the scene a glistening, unreal quality, colored harshly where no color would normally be visible.

  Something was lurching down the ramp, coal-black against the yellow glow of the freighter's hull. The imaging camera zoomed in, resolving the silhouette into grey metal and glistening joints. Targeting crosshairs snapped on, with four beads of light tracking in to meet in a pulse of light at the bullseye center. Laser scan readouts flickered on one side, showing range, height, mass, and bearing. Grayson didn't need the computer ID to tell him what he was seeing. It was a 'Mech, the kind known as a Marauder.

  The Marauder did not share the humanoid appearance of most 'Mechs. Instead, its 75 tons of arms and armor were molded into a crablike body mounted on a pair of oversized legs that knifed back and down in a forward-leaning, digitigrade stance.

  The machine was old, patched and etched with the signs of frequent repairs and replacements. The black and grey paint pattern was broken in places by brown rust and old battle scars. A pair of arms hung suspended from just forward of the leg joints, each mounting a heavy particle cannon and a laser in over-under mounts where hands and forearms might be expected in a living being. The massive tube of a 120 mm rapid-fire autocannon balanced above the body, completing the battle machine's armament.

  The Phoenix Hawk was 30 tons lighter, normally far more maneuverable, but still badly outclassed by the bigger machine in any 'Mech-to-'Mech slugmatch. And the Hawk was already crippled... "Dad! Do you see its insignia?”

  “I see it" The image had picked up the shine of fresh paint against the scarred surface of the enemy ‘Mech's left leg, a stylized animal's eye colored scarlet and black, with slit pupil and menacing brow.

  It was the crest insignia of Hendrick III, King of Oberon, the bandit warlord with whom the Trellwan pact was to have been signed. Behind the first enemy 'Mech, the shadowed shape of a second, smaller 'Mech appeared, followed by a third. Grayson wasn't certain, but he thought one of those shapes was a Stinger, the other a Locust — both 20-ton 'Mechs more suited to scouting or fighting infantry than tangling with heavy Mechs.

  But even light scouts could gang up on a solitary Phoenix Hawk, especially when the Hawk was barely able to stand or fire. Autocannon fire winked from the Marauder, and explosions stitched across the savaged Hawk's hull.

  "Betrayed!" Riviera said, and his open palm smashed at the console table. "Those filthy, backstabbing..."

  "I guess... that settles who's... behind this..." Carlyle said. "But why... would they attack... now?"

  The Hawk opened fire with its solitary laser, then spun, dodging. A tracery of twisting contrails arced through the night sky from the DropShip, short-ranged missiles seeking the solitary target The image jarred and went white as at least one of the warheads struck home.

  Half the readout monitor was blinking red now. The Hawk's internal circuits had been savaged by a spray of molten steel. Carlyle was having trouble keeping the Hawk upright. The shriek of protesting servomotors keened across the audio pickup.

  "OPERATOR WARNING! HEAT CRITICAL. SUGGEST IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN." The warning pulsed in crimson light across the top of the screen, and Grayson could hear the harsh bray of an on-board klaxon.

  The pattern of telltale lights shifted. Carlyle had slapped his override, was dragging the 'Mech's left arm up to bear on the Marauder.

  "Boss!" Riviera shouted into the com mike. "Eject!"

  The crosshairs centered on the looming Marauder, and points of light tracked inward along the line to merge at target center.

  "You don't have the power!" Riviera's yell was shrill. Grayson felt a sick burning rise in his throat.

  The events of the next few moments occurred in rapid-fire succession, but to Grayson, they seemed to crawl through a small eternity. The Marauder rushed forward, taking the Hawk's fire across its lower torso in a flare of light and heat that swamped the IR scanners and left the image broken in a dazzle of computer-enhanced color.

  "Got him!" someone at another console shouted. There was a ragged cheer that faltered as the monitor image shifted up, up, to show the Marauder still intact and looming above the Phoenix Hawk, which lay helplessly on its back. Then, one massive forearm descended like an avalanche of steel. The monitor flickered to statis-chopped black before eyes or minds could sort out that pell-mell confusion of images.

  An animal sound caught and broke in Grayson's throat as he came to his feet, his palms grasping at the monitor frame. "No!" he screamed. "No!"

  Riviera's voice, meticulous in its control, rose above the hush of a room suddenly gone silent. "PXH-One, PXH-One, this is Control. Respond if you can. Over."

  There was no answer, and the silence grew deeper. Grayson's eyes were burning, and he realized his face was wet with tears.

&n
bsp; His father was dead.

  4

  "PXH, PXH..." Riviera's voice cracked. "Boss, are you there?

  "Control, this is Xiang." The words were blurred by static and the thunder of continuing battle explosions. "The Skipper's had it. Nothing we can do. Those light 'Mechs are closing on us. We're pulling back."

  The silence in Control dragged for several long seconds. Then Riviera leaned over the mike. "O.K., Rama. Fall back on the Castle. We're under heavy attack here."

  "We'll try, Control, but they're between us and the Castle."

  "Damn!" Riviera muttered. "Damn! Okay, fall back to the shuttle. Try to form a perimeter. I'll alert the Wasps."

  A hand fell on Grayson's shoulder. He shrugged it away, looked up when it fell on him again.

  Griffith's face was streaked with smoke and sweat, his uniform crumpled. The hand gripping the Gunther MP-20 was dripping blood from a nasty gash.

  "We've got to go, Gray. Quickly."

  "He's...dead." Shock had left Grayson feeling cold and dazed, with a hollow in the pit of his stomach.

  "I know. Come on."

  Riviera said, "Where's the Lieutenant? The... the Captain said he was to take charge, pull us offworld."

  Griffith jerked his bullet head past his shoulder. "Downstairs. We're holding, I think, but there're too many of 'em."

  Griffith turned and raised his voice to address the entire control room. "All right, listen up! We're going to move out down Corridor A to the Vehicle Bay. Lieutenant Hauptman is holding a perimeter for us there. Well be able to board HVTs and make it to the shuttle from there!"

  "What about our families?" The lone voice cracked on the question that was reflected in the eyes of many of the technicians and soldiers around the room. Wherever stationed, Carlyle's Commandos carried with it a small army of support and technical people, including the wives, husbands, and children of many of the unit's members. Most of them were also members of the Commandos' support company, serving as medics, cooks, maintenance personnel, orderlies, or tutors for the childred.

  "Already on their way," Griffith said. "Don't worry. We won't leave anyone behind. The Commandos take care of their own!"